Home Is Where The Heart Is
by Lady Enigmatic
Summary: The abbreviated, angst-ridden, and fluffy sequel to Reconciliation. The year is 1803. Lottie Wellard, Cat Kennedy, and Amy Bush have settled since their journey aboard the Renown, but all is not well in paradise. When one of them is given the chance to return to her world, she is faced with a choice that will have eternal consequences. Wellard/OC, Bush/OC, Archie/OC, Horatio/Maria
1. Preface: A Black Wind

**Well, here it is at last: the (short and fluffy) sequel to Reconciliation. This one will focus a bit more on my OC's rather than the canon characters. Sorry for the wait, it took me a while to get back in the mood for Hornblower (I got on tumblr and I realized how much I missed this). I also want to apologize in advance for the highly unbelievable sci-fi in this chapter, just go with me on this for a while—it gets better I swear. Reviews are loved! As always. **

_Preface: A Black Wind_

The year is 2013. It is a quiet summer night in a small town on the edge of nowhere. Most of the town's people are asleep, lulled into slumber by the chirping of the crickets and the cooling breeze. This is a small place, where everyone knows everyone and there are no secrets.

But there _is_ a secret to this seemingly boring, see-through town. For years, a government-funded program has been running under everyones' noses. Scientists have been experimenting with the concept of traveling to other worlds—not the past, not outer space, but alternate realities of one's own imagination. A seemingly impossible idea brought to life through in depth study, speculation, and testing.

Throughout history, there were accounts of unsatisfied people disappearing and then showing up days, weeks, even years later by the same strange force. But most specifically, there were records of people disappearing and reappearing here. It was a puzzle, an enigma, that had stolen the hearts of many a brainiac.

Through years of dedication, calculation, and trial and error, a portal had been opened. This portal, using a force that not even one of the most knowledgeable scientists could really understand, was able to open the opportunity to leave this reality and go onto an alternate one. It had been the daughter of one of the researchers, a Harry Potter geek, who had brought it to the scientists' attention. It was crazy, it was impossible—and yet, it existed, for which there was no explanation, no theory, nothing.

After the first portal had been discovered, others started to pop up, all along unpopulated areas—and in particular, this town. Each was a different size, in a different place, and took whatever participant to another different world. Some worlds were those that had been created by contemporary authors of the 21st century, others were of the past, and others still were of the future.

Progress had been slow, until one researcher had discovered the key to traveling to any other place. It wasn't physical power—it was passion. The initial discoverers had used themselves as test subjects, trying to transport themselves into different worlds, and had been successful for a time. But it never lasted. It was difficult to judge exactly how long they were able to remain there, as time seemed to pass faster in some places and slower in others. Roughly, the longest time they had managed to stay in an alternate reality was a full 24 hours.

The problem was that the scientists had no real passion for leaving the world that they lived in or to stay in the places they managed to be transported to. They were not dissatisfied enough—despite the fact they had spent a large portion of their lives trying to find a way to go somewhere else.

In order to attempt complete success, they needed people who had a great desire to be somewhere else no matter how impossible it was. Frankly, they needed fanatics, obsessed and wrought up diehards who wished to be a part of a universe that was not real. But such a secret organization could not afford to be brought to the public's attention, and was denied test subjects. Thus, the project had reached a stand-still.

Until that one night in 2011 had changed everything.

It had been by accident, that fateful fourth of July, that a portal soon to be discovered was opened in that field that appeared abandoned. When a portal was open, all one had to do was wish deeply that they would be part of a different world, and they would be taken there. The problem was making sense of the pattern of when portals were open versus closed, something that the scientists had not been able to do as of yet.

Three girls, who could have easily been the most passionate in the entire state, had been lucky—or unlucky, depending on one's perspective—enough to be taken through the portal into the reality of their favorite TV series, Horatio Hornblower, which was what they seemed to spend most of their time thinking about.

At first, the Director of the project, Carmen Harper, was angry with herself for letting something like this happen. It pointed out that there were certainly holes in their research—not every portal had been found. In fact, there were probably dozens of undiscovered portals people were walking through every day, oblivious, and too content with their own world to be whisked away to a different one.

But who cared about this Hornblower? She hadn't even heard about the show until this had happened. And what were those girls doing out in that area anyway? They should have stuck closer to the park if they wanted to see fireworks.

It had been an accident, certainly. But not necessarily a loss. Carmen had come to realize how great this accident had been. Now, the organization had three test subjects who had both passion and zeal for another reality. The best part was that now their researchers could observe these girls as they either stuck out or fit in to their new reality, and help further develop what could someday be a commercial entertainment or learning device worth trillions of dollars. The girls' ignorance of the fact that all one had to do to return to her own world was to wish long and hard that she could go back was a helpful factor as well.

There was, however, still a problem. The subjects had been missed by the townspeople. By the whole freaking country, it seemed. At first, all logical conclusions had been breached: they were kidnapped, they were murdered, they ran away. But all guesses fell through as it was found that there was no evidence to suggest anything. They really had disappeared without a trace.

It had taken a while, years in fact, but eventually the organization had been brought up as a possibility. All of the sudden, everyone was invovled in what had been formerly a highly disguised operation—the CIA, the FBI, the US government. The director was sure the families could be paid off to be kept quiet, or other means could be taken to get them out of her hair. But the lawsuits that would follow would be harder to shake. If the press got a hold of any of this information, if any details of their operation were made public, the organization would be shut down. Of that she was certain.

Carmen Harper, director of the alternate-reality-portal program, sat up in her office, trying to decide how she would attack this problem. For the last thirty years of her life, she had been dedicated to scientific development and discovery. This was her life's work, her baby. She would not watch it fall apart just because some stupid kids happened to accidentally be whisked away to some place nobody cared about. No, she had come too far to lose everything. There had to be a way to keep the world off her back.

Even though she knew it was bad for her, she lit a cigarette, breathing in and exhaling the smoke. Right now, she really needed a solution, a gamble—something that would keep her research labs and developments in operation.

The participants, as Carmen liked to call them, had not appeared after the first twenty-four hours spent in their alternate reality, as she had been expected they would. After all, her assistants had never managed to stay somewhere they didn't belong for very long. Day after day passed, but no one came back through the portal. For the first time in all of Carmen's years of experimentation, it seemed that someone had been able to remain and adapt to an entirely different reality. This was astonishing to the scientists—one would have to be immensely dedicated, and naïve, to be able to accomplish something this phenomenal. Truly, progress was being made here.

Carmen thought that this was demonstrating a new, modern philosophy. How does one know that he is not just a pawn, a character in another all-knowing author's story made to entertain an audience? That his entire world is simply the creation of someone else's imagination, and that the made-up characters of creative authors are the ones that truly exist? In her mind, the existence of these portals proved that one could not presume to be the real person, and that the so-called imagined characters in their world were not real people. And that fact that adaption to an entirely different world was possible was also astonishing.

The world wasn't listening to that kind of reasoning. Couldn't they see how fantastic this was? No, they could not see. The government was blind to the concept of scientific advancement. All anyone seemed to care about was if their poor babies came home safe and sound. They had been there so long, Carmen had argued, that if they had managed not to die, they were probably some of the most capable, courageous people on the planet. Really, why couldn't they just be left alone? Obviously they were happy enough living in the world of Fluteplayer, or whatever his name was.

What fascinated her the most was the change of mindset of the participants. Their memories of their former lives and surroundings had begun to fade, being replaced with vague senses of where they had come from had what the world had been like. Eventually, she was sure they would forget everything that formerly defined them, and that they would totally accept and embrace the world they lived in. Such was the side-affect of becoming a part of another reality.

Of the three that had spent a total of a two years in an alternate reality, two were, in simple terms, too far gone to return. Their memories and minds were forever altered—if they ever came back to their former lives, Carmen was sure they would end up in a mental hospital for the rest of their days. It would just be too difficult for them to re-adjust, to completely alter their way of life again.

But there was still hope for the return of one—the youngest participant. It was uncertain why her memory had been retained longer than her friends. Perhaps it was because she was youngest; perhaps it was just by uncanny luck. Carmen had looked into her medical record. It seemed that this girl had a history of insomnia due to condition that caused her to have very vivid, violent dreams that were often triggered by memories or fears. The director was willing to bet that "dreams" of her old life were slowing down her process of adjustment.

Smoke swirled in upward spirals from the cigarette, temporarily forgotten, perched between Carmen's fingers. Maybe, just maybe, if one of the participants came back, this organization could stay in operation. It would take persuasion, undoubtedly, as well as a great deal of money. But then again, it might just work. If _she_ came home, maybe mommy and daddy would finally shut up about their daughter. The organization would make up a story—they could make them believe anything they wanted about the other two. All that was needed was a confirmation, even if false, from one of them. Finally, Carmen could be left to work in peace again.

Now that was a decent idea. It was worth a little risk, she decided. To think of the many portals she had yet to find! And the many worlds left untouched by their own. Other portals surely existed, she was sure of it. And to be able to leave one's one world, and live in another—even for only a brief time—would be a huge achievement of science and education. But discovering other portals and perfecting a way of travel between worlds would take lots of secrecy, time, and research—things she could only manage if the public was kept out of it entirely.

Yes. This could be possible. She could still save this organization she had been fighting for all these years. It wouldn't be hard getting into the world those silly girls had fallen in love with, surely. They would suit-up in period dress, think a little, and they would be transported. Of course, they wouldn't be able to stay there very long, a day or so at the most at a time. The participant wouldn't be hard to find. Tracking devices had been initiated as soon as the portal had been discovered.

None of the scientists had really known much about Hornblower, and much less had the desire to leave the luxury and comfort of their own world. That, Carmen supposed, would be the hard part—the time-crunch. In order to convince the participant to leave, she had to be fully convinced that she did not belong there, or that there was a legitimate reason that she had to return to her original life.

It wouldn't be easy, but it was the most workable option. The girl had to be brought back by whatever means necessary. Intimidation, a bribe, anything really—Carmen did not care. Then she could make the girl say whatever she wanted to make the lawyers screaming injustice and the moaning families give the whole bad-secret-organization argument a rest.

Taking one final puff on her cigarette before stubbing it out on an ash tray, she picked up her office phone and dialed the number of her most trusted affiliate—Trent Johnson. He would still be awake, she was sure, probably working overtime on some calculation or other like he always was.

After two rings, he answered with a surprisingly chipper hello for so late an hour. His superior explained their situation, telling him that she had a special assignment for him and his lab partner, Erin Bailey, to accomplish. His mission was to locate one of the participants—a Charlotte O'Hara—and convince her to return to her former world.

"But how?"

"I don't care _how_, Trent. Tell her everything, anything—just don't come back without her."

"What if she doesn't want to go?" he asked, seeming oblivious to the underlying meaning of his director's words.

"Then make her go. Use whatever means necessary," Carmen told him. Good grief. The man could be so dense at times. If persuasion did not work, force would be the appropriate choice. Connor wasn't the greatest at thinking outside the box, but he was intelligent and trustworthy. If anyone could accomplish this task, he would be the one to do it.

"We will start preparations first thing tomorrow morning. Call Erin and tell her to be there. Whatever happens, Connor, we must return this girl to our world. Otherwise, all that we have worked for will be worth nothing."

It was a risky move, and perhaps not the best one, but she knew that whatever the cost, this organization had to survive. Even if some did not.

"We must bring her home," the Director said, thinking of the irony behind her words as she said them. They were spoken as if she had this girl's best interests in mind, yet really, her own interests were the only thing on her mind.

This made her smile.

**And there it is. I know, there was like, zero Hornblower in this chapter. It's coming, I promise! I will try and aim for this to be done in the next six months, but we'll see. Review and let me know what you think. Cheers. **


	2. Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme

**And here it is, at long last! Ugh. I am so SORRY. It's so embarrassing to not have uploaded this sooner. I always promised myself I would never be one of those authors with stories they update so infrequently. Then real life happened. -.- **

**More navy boys in this chapter. And no more weird sci-fi for awhile, either. Enjoy, my few remaining readers. Reviews greatly appreciated, as always! Thank you SO much to those who reviewed the preface, hearts to you guys! Hope this brightens your day.**

**Something that probably needs to be explained: Lottie will take most of the focus of this story, sorry if that upsets anyone. When I first started Rec, I planned on making her the foremost character, but the responses to Amy's and Cat's stories were so beautiful that I decided to be nice and carry on with them as well. Cat and Amy will have parts to play in this sequel, but be warned that most of this story revolves around Lottie. I hope you still read this!**

_Chapter 1: Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme_

The year was 1803. The Treaty of Amiens, which had created a short-lived and shaky halting of the hostilities with France, was over. Many sailors welcomed the return of the war with France, as many found it hard to support themselves and their families during the peace. But for now, the long and bitter fighting between France and Great Britain had slowed. Some lucky navy and militia men were able to come home and be with their families for the holidays, others were not as fortunate, and remained at sea or at their stations.

Christmas had embraced the city once again. There was not snow on the ground quite yet, but locals crossed their fingers and prayed earnestly—both for the moisture as well as the beauty of the falling white flakes. It was hard not to be cheered by the holiday season. Decorations hung in windows, scents of seasonal dishes and breads spilled out from bakeries, and people huddled around their fires, bundled in as many layers as they had available.

Best of all, men from ships overseas and lands afar were returning home. There were some who would not be able return for the season, and others who starting out on their journeys directly before the holidays. But for some fortunate seamen, officers, and soldiers that had come home, there was very little to be sad about. Ships were coming in steadily, returning to gather supplies, new recruits, and reinforcements for the elongated blockade of the French coast.

The evening approached rapidly that day. The final ships had docked, and their officers had been released from their duties. Each was on his furlough, and each had plans as to how to spend it. The Hotspur had pulled into Portsmouth Bay several hours ago, yet only now had most of its crew finally left the ship for their holiday, including the Captain, having finished their journey at long last. It was custom to keep sailors aboard the ship at all times—mostly because of the navy's fear of desertion—but due to the graciousness of their Captain, and in regards to the holiday season, many of the Hotspur's sailors had been allowed a short leave. They did not take this for granted, escaping quickly to enjoy the few days that they had for themselves.

Captain Horatio Hornblower walked into the first tavern he came to in Portsmouth, not wanting to walk any further than necessary in the rain that was coming down in sleety sheets. The place was overcrowded, and perhaps not the cleanliest, but it was warm, and he could smell lovely aromas coming from the kitchen. It seemed like days ago that he had last eaten. Right now, fresh bread sounded particularly appetizing, seeing as for the last few weeks, he had deprived of anything very fresh, save the prize fruit they had retrieved from a French frigate.

His first officer, William Bush, was close behind him. They had chosen to stick together after their voyage was over, at least for the time being. Bush was headed back to London to be reunited with his fiery but charming wife, Amanda. Horatio was unsure of where he was going. There would most likely be some place around Portsmouth that he could afford to stay at for a while, at least until something new turned up. He did have a wife to return to eventually, out of duty rather than his love for her. She was living in Plymouth because of its importance to the navy; she believed that by living there, she would be closer to him. Horatio knew that he would have to endure a lecture from his grumpy mother-in-law when Christmas came around. Money wasn't a problem—at least, it wouldn't be for a few months. The navy paid decently, the only issue was when he was on leave and not earning wages.

"Let's see if we can get something to eat around here," said Horatio, having to raise his voice slightly in order to compete with the noise of laughter and socializing. His companion nodded, and the two of them made their way to the bar counter. It took a minute to get the serving girl's attention, she seemed very busy. Horatio ordered something to warm his belly, and Bush followed suit.

Wearily, the two navy men sank down onto their stools, enjoying the feeling slowly returning to their toes and fingers. It had been a long haul this time. And it hadn't been the most pleasant of cruises, either. The crew was able-bodied enough, but the officers had not been the most cooperative. Horatio was not new at being in command, but he had found that being a captain was not a responsibility that should be diminished in the slightest.

"Horatio!" someone called from behind him. The Captain turned around.

His longtime friend and shipmate, Archie Kennedy, was making his way through the tables and standing customers to them. Henry Wellard, another fellow officer and former shipmate, followed close behind. Broad smiles lit their faces, and Bush and Horatio felt their spirits lift at the sight of their comrades. It had been a long time since they had seen each other last, but their shared history kept them from growing apart no matter how infrequent their conversations were.

"What are you lot doing in Plymouth?" asked Archie, nearly laughing at the happen circumstance. The four men greeted each other happily—partially because of their kinship with one another, and partial because of the cheer the season brought them—shaking hands and clapping one another's shoulders.

"Same as you two are, I figure," said Bush, smiling.

"It is good to see you," said Horatio genuinely, faintly recalling flashes of the last journey he had shared with both of them. Archie nodded seriously, and Bush hmm-ed in agreement.

"Some luck, this—docking in the same city, at the same time, staying at the same place," noted Archie, glancing around the crowded tables, doted with the dark blue uniforms of eating, laughing, and drinking navy men.

"Let's call it fate. Drinks all around?" suggested Wellard, and with nodding heads, the rest agreed. An occasion like this could not be passed up. Besides, it was the Christmas season. Archie and Wellard joined their friends at their table, and Bush proceeded to get the attention, once again, of one of the ever-busy serving girls.

Nearly two years had passed since the conclusion of the four's journey aboard the Renown, when they had served as officers under the command of Captain James Sawyer, a naval captain who had been highly esteemed. Their tale was not a pretty one, and included scandalous whispers between the decks of mutiny, insanity, and unrecorded passengers. In short, the Renown had been headed for sure disaster under the command of James Sawyer, so the lieutenants had done what had been necessary to prevent it. Along for their journey had been three shipwrecked American women who were allegedly under Sawyer's mercy to be returned to their country. Charges were pressed against the lieutenants for the unorthodox—so to speak—removal of Captain Sawyer, but over the course of a trial in Kingston, all charges had been dismissed.

Things had ended up quite differently than one would expect. The three American passengers had not been returned to America. Instead, they had become Mrs. Kennedy, Mrs. Bush, and Mrs. Wellard over the course of the following year. Captain James Sawyer's name had been tarnished forever, and the lives of the Renown's officers had been preserved. It was for the Admiralty to decide which was of greater importance.

Once the four lieutenants had returned to England, they found that a treaty had been signed between France and Britain, temporarily immobilizing them as navy officers. Because of their shared experience, and friendship, they did not immediately separate. Those who were only engaged got married, and as husbands they tried to provide for their wives—which proved not to be an easy task, seeing as they were living on half-pay. It was a trying year for the newlyweds, but their love had carried them through the difficulties, and they had emerged stronger, although a tad more frugal.

Less than a year later, war had once again broken out between the two neighboring countries. Horatio was given command of the small frigate, the Hotspur, with Bush as his senior officer. Shortly after, Wellard and Archie had been assigned to a smart brig called the Armageddon. It was a fast, beautiful ship that worked as a privateer against the Spanish and the French. Their voyages were long, but successful.

The four greeted one other heartily, laughing and smiling and asking how life had been for the other lately. Archie and Wellard were both jovial in manner, their last voyage had been a good one. Their ship had managed to capture a richly loaded French frigate, bringing in an ample supply of prize money for all of the crew. Both of them had arrived earlier that day, but due to the weather conditions, were unable to return home until the following morning.

An onlooker would never have guessed at the trials the four had faced. One would assume their meeting was nothing more than a casual gathering between friends who had never been better. The conversation flowed easily, as if they had never been apart. Talk of their women—the three American wives—could be heard, as well as detailed accounts of their journeys since the Renown.

The terrible and tragic events that had occurred aboard the Renown were seldom mentioned amongst the four friends. There was no need for a reminder of the past, for it lingered in the back of their minds, haunting them forever. Each had emerged from the experience a better person, but each found the memories inescapable. All they could do was live—not as if nothing had ever happened, for that they found impossible—but with the intent of moving forward. Every once in a great while, somehow the topic would weasel its way into a decent discussion, turning their conversation cold.

Bush, as usual, said something particularly amusing to his comrades, and after the accommodating laughter, a quiet pause ensued.

Archie was the first to break the silence, with nearly morbid composure. "Do you remember last Christmas, gentlemen?"

"Oh, God. _Yes_," Wellard said loudly, being the first to answer, and he rubbed his forehead, as if trying to block the memory out. His companions laughed at his reaction, and a faint flush spread across Wellard's defiantly pale cheeks. Usually he was very soft spoken; it was only around his friends he felt completely comfortable speaking his mind.

Archie thought about throwing out a off-colored joke towards the younger officer, but decided not to embarrass him too badly. There would be time for that later. Instead he chose to say, "This year, things are doing to be different. This year will be a Christmas to remember." There were murmurs of agreement from around the table, and Bush heartily raised his mug in concurrence.

It was unanimous—even among those who were much better off than Wellard—that last the holiday season, in fact, the entirety of last year, had been a difficult one for the families of those enlisted the service. The peace had left its navy men living off of half pay, and worse yet, Horatio's command of the Retribution had been taken from him. Naturally, they had done the best they could to survive, and Archie had not been considerably hurt by the smaller income, as he was, frankly, quite rich.

Of the three of them, Wellard had felt the worst about it. Not because of himself, but because of his dear Lottie—his ever forgiving, his ever optimistic dear friend. There was no money for frivolous things, or anything other than was essential, really. She didn't _need_ frivolous things, his wife had insisted, but Wellard still felt bad. It was his duty as a husband to provide for her, and yet he found her having to earn a source of income in addition to his salary.

But this year, it would indeed be different. The young lieutenant was determined. There was more money now, and Wellard was going to buy her something. If that meant forgoing something for himself, so be it. Either way, his wife was going to be warm and happy this holiday season. And he couldn't wait to see her again. For a moment, he considered sending a letter ahead to her, but he decided against it. It would be a surprise- she would like that.

There was a mischievous twinkle in Archie's eye as he took another generous gulp from his mug. "What are you thinking, my friend?" asked Horatio, who's smile was finally meeting his eyes. The color that had been stolen from their faces by the winter's chill had been replenished by the drink, soup and bread they had been served. The atmosphere was cozy now, and each man was comfortable.

"Don't you think it odd, though—both our ships coming in on the same day, happening upon each other at the same tavern?" His friends had no choice but to agree, it was indeed lucky. They had not seen each other for some time, so this chance meeting was not to be brushed past. After all, there was much catching up to do after such time spent apart.

"I think that this, like Wellard aptly called it, is fate," he continued, and Wellard recognized the look in his senior officer's eyes—Archie was about to do something impulsive. "Why not be together for Christmas?" he finished merrily, and his companions at first did not know how to respond.

"Are you mad?" asked Bush, who laughed again. Maybe it was the drink, or maybe it was his company, but suddenly everything just seemed so damn funny.

"I'm perfectly serious," Archie insisted, grinning. "Come stay at my house, all of you, for Christmas. Better bring your wives, too. Oh God, Cat would have my head if you left them at home," he said winking, knowing very well that his wife had probably already invited Lottie and Amy to their house for Christmas.

"I know that _my_ wife would have _my_ head if I left her at home," replied Bush quietly, trying to attempt seriousness and failing miserably as a chuckle escaped him. The rest of the group laughed along with him. No, they couldn't really see Bush emerging from a situation like that unscathed. Not with a woman like Amy.

"Lottie, I'm sure, would love to come," answered Wellard, more formally than his companion. Archie nodded. It would probably do the girl some good, to get away from the tavern where she worked and lived, and have someone wait on her for a change.

Horatio was the only one at the table who had yet to respond to Archie's eager invitation. It wasn't that he didn't want to go, it was just that he had a duty to his ship, and there was also Maria. Though it came off as selfish every time he tried to explain it, there were just some things he didn't want to share with his wife. His experiences aboard the Hotspur and his naval friends were things he just wanted to keep to himself. He didn't really know why, it just seemed like Maria had already suffered so much sadness in her life that he didn't want to risk bringing in more. And yes, he was a bit selfish, he supposed. It was one of the few things he didn't have to hear her talk about all the time at home.

"Horatio?" Archie asked, eyes expectant. Hornblower sighed. He knew that his friend would be disappointed if he declined his offer, but Archie would forgive him. And that's why he always felt so guilty. Ever since they were midshipmen, he felt like he had let down Archie repeatedly over the course of their time spent together in the navy.

"It's just that, well, Maria..." he trailed off, unsure of how to finish that thought without coming off across as an arrogant pig.

"She can come too, Horatio. Maybe it would do her some good to include her—to go out and meet some new people," Bush advised gently, careful not to press the matter.

If anyone else had suggested something like that in such a forward manner, Horatio would have been offended. But this was his friend—someone who knew him, who understood. Thank God for William. He at least had him to talk to about Maria. Maybe his friend was right. It wasn't something he would deny—Maria didn't really have any friends. She kept herself busy as a schoolteacher during the day, and caring for her mother.

Still, he wasn't sure if this was the best idea. Maybe it would be alright. Maybe.

"I'm not sure how long I would be able to stay, seeing as I have a duty to my ship," he answered finally, and his friends had to smile to themselves. There he went again, having that same infallible sense of duty even in midst of cheer and holiday. Always the sober one, he was, never letting life's pleasures distract him from where his loyalties lied.

"Oh, yes. The _Hotspur _shouldn't be kept waiting for too long. I'm sure she's eagerly awaiting the presence of her Captain," Archie teased, and a brief smile washed across his tired friend's face. "So I will be seeing you and Maria, then?"

After a slight hesitation, he replied, "Yes. And well, my mother-in-law, too, I suppose. She lives with Maria," he muttered, remembering that the crotchety old woman would not abandon her daughter. But then again, she might just rather stay at home, depending if she felt up to the journey or not.

"The more the merrier," Archie said sincerely. Horatio smiled gratefully.

"Well, I don't know about you gentlemen, but I'm off to bed. The only cab for London leaves at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning," said Bush at last, letting out a sigh as he got up from the table. His companions protested, saying that surely he wasn't getting old already, but they let him go. They all knew that beneath his groaning, he actually was an early riser, and the morning would not come fast enough for him. They knew he missed Amy miserably.

Horatio soon followed his first officer, claiming a room for himself. Archie and Wellard remained for a while longer at the table, chatting pleasantly about their prize money, the few mysterious items they had grabbed for themselves—such as the fine powder known as chocolate used to make a soothing, warm drink—and wives, whom they were anxious to be reunited with.

It had been months since the couples had last held each other. The last time the _Armageddon_ had been in port, it was for supplies and orders from the Admiralty only. Wellard was the only one lucky enough to be granted a day's leave, serving as an overseer of loading new cargo onto the ship. He spent it wisely, rushing off to his awaiting wife as soon as he was able. Archie had not been as fortunate, and had glumly had to be contented by his wife's letters, which paled in comparison to actually seeing her face to face.

Evening turned to night as the music died and food grew stale. It was much later than they should have been awake, the officers decided, and it was probably time they turn in. It would take some time for them to adjust to no longer sleeping for only four hours at a time, having to be on watch every other four hours. Then again, it would probably prove to take no time to adjust at all.

Tomorrow, Wellard and Archie would travel together as far as Southampton, where Lottie stayed—and Wellard, when he was ashore. From there, Archie would continue on to Bristol, where he and Cat lived comfortably on his inheritance—a large house overseeing surrounding farms. It would be a long journey, and would most likely take two full days. The journeys of Horatio and Bush would be longer. Horatio would travel all the way to Plymouth, and Bush would be traveling in the opposite direction, to London. There was still a week or so until Christmas; there wasn't a real need to rush, other than the fact that none of them had seen their wives for far too long and longed to be in their company.

Away to their rooms they went, longing for sleep and filled with the hope of the next morning—which couldn't come fast enough. The same boyish, Christmas excitement danced throughout their thoughts. And no one, not even the sober Horatio, was tainted with pessimism or prediction about the future. For once, everything seemed to be good, and each man was determined to keep it that way. Each man fell asleep in turn, dreaming of blissful cherished moments to be had, and of the things to come with the following morn. A proper holiday, it would be—one far from the sea, from the blood on their hands, and from the memories tainted by the burdens of pain, duty, and war. Thoughts of peace—only peace—calmed their minds. No reflections on past choices made nor fears of the days to follow betrayed them.

**Ah. I'm kind of in the mood for Christmas now, even with it being only June... And my classes are finally OVER for the semester! My goal is to write as much as possible over the two months that I have. Again, I humbly apologize for not updating in many, many months. It has been incredibly hard for me to write much of anything between real life and my emotions. **

**I will *try* and update soon-ish. Seriously, soon-ish!**


	3. This Could Be Paradise

**And here we get a glimpse into the current lives of my OC's—hopefully you remember them. ;) I would love some feedback, good or bad. Gimme gimme gimme a review (after midniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight). Pleases and thank-yous. Titel taken from a great song that you should know. I just kind of heard it as I was writing this chapter, even though the lyrics aren't parallel to the story. **

_Chapter 2: This Could Be Paradise_

Paint touched the rough canvas, and color brightened the dull background. The artist pulled the brush along, dabbing here and there on her pallet before once again bringing her brush up to the nearly-covered cloth. She was creating a scene that she hoped would be pleasing to all passerby: a great, mighty ship with billowing sails rolling upwards with the spiraling waves. Most of all, she wanted the receiver of this gift to like it—her husband, Archie Kennedy.

Catherine Kennedy, affectionately known by her friends as Cat, could not wait for Christmas. The nearing holiday would bring home her husband as well as be a cause of much celebration. Life had not been the busiest for her lately, which most wouldn't mind, but Cat found herself restless. She needed to do something, to be useful somehow. It was most improper to ask the servants if she could take part in their daily activities, but the cook had understood. The woman had even let her help her with the dishes in the evenings once in a while. Archie would have been horrified, but Cat knew that it would forever be a secret between the help and herself.

There was no need for Cat to work, cook, or clean. It was clear to be seen that Archie Kennedy had money—lots of it. His mother had long ago remarried after his father's death, and lived comfortably outside of Bristol nearby to his older sister, Clara, and her husband, Robert Brown. Archie, as the oldest male, had inherited his father's house and a great deal of endowment. His younger sister, Mary, remained at home with them. She was still young, a child really, and had not yet had a beau to claim her. So, she spent her days reading, drawing, and entertaining herself.

Cat had found a great confidant in Mary. Mary, unlike her elder sister, was fond of Cat. Both girls, being very interested in art, were able to trade techniques and discuss different methods of creating. One had shared her new paintbrushes and conversation, the other her friendship and expertise. Mary was much like Archie in the sense that she was unassuming in everything, finding most everyone to be pleasant and amiable until proven otherwise. The two got on very well, and kept each other company when Archie was away. To Mary, in addition to being a friend—which she had desperately sought after her sister had married—Cat was also fascinating. Countless hours she was entertained by Cat's tales of America, and of all the places, people, and cultures Mary had always dreamed of experiencing but knew she never would.

Archie's older sister, however, had a different personality entirely, Cat had found. Clara had a very aristocratic way of thinking. Her marriage to a rich gentleman had influenced what she now held in importance. Then again, she had always been partial to finery and renowned social status. In viewing her fellow man, she remained aloof. Cat was no exception to this perception. Her brother could have done much better, Clara thought, and he was foolish to marry a girl so far out of his class. Yes, Cat was sincere, and yes, Cat was certainly beautiful, but she lacked both wealth and family—two things that Clara thought to be of the utmost importance for any spouse to have. Because of these two things, Clara was snippy, to say the least, whenever she happened to converse with Cat. Clara was nearly thirty, and had been married for five years. Still, Archie had yet to become an uncle. Cat suspected that Clara was unable to have children easily, and this misfortune perhaps added to her unfriendly attitude. So, she was thus able to forgive Clara's less-than-warm welcome every time she greeted her.

Needless to say, the Browns and the Kennedys did not often dine together, despite their close relation. They had politely turned down Cat's offer to host their family for Christmas, giving the old age of Archie's mother as an excuse. No offer to spend the holidays with the Browns had been sent, so Cat was left to presume she would be without family for the Cat was not used to people not liking her, and it did hurt her that she was written off as a fool just because she had never used more than three utensils per meal, or learned how to hold a fan properly.

There was that, and the fact that she was not even from this time period that kept Cat from perfectly conforming to the mold of an average upperclass wife in the early 1800's. No one, of course, knew that—save Lottie and Amy, her two closest confidants, and future companions. During the several years she had spent living in the world of the 1800's, memories of her former life had continued to slip away. Now, she could scarcely distinguish a memory of her former life from a nonsensical daydream.

Nevertheless, her origin had left her with a strange vocabulary she could neither escape nor explain. Archie shrugged it off as her being American, but Mary knew she was different. The girl wasn't suspicious—she just blamed it on Cat's "yankee" upbringing. Mary had ended up being an excellent teacher of how the British world worked in the nineteenth century. Cat's slight, but unhidden pronunciation made Mary giggle, telling her that it made her sound Irish. At first, Cat was flattered. Where she had come from, Irish heritage—and accents—were regarded warmly. It was only later she learned that the Irish in this time were not favored by society, and those with unmistakable accents hid them.

Her life here was certainly that of the well-off upper class. Archie was always coming home with "treats" for the only women in his life—Mary and Cat. A new parasol, or a new book, even some foreign coins once. Cat did appreciate the things he bought her, and the comforts she could enjoy here at their estate a few miles outside of Tisbury. But part of her loathed spending her days being so idle—especially when her forever friends Amanda and Charlotte working busily for hard-earned money—Amy as an stage actress in London and Lottie as a tavern server in Southampton.

Most of the upper-class would scare acknowledge the lower classes—those who actually had to do labor in order to eat. Socializing—inviting them into your house as friends was preposterous. And keeping in contact with an actress was just as immoral. Her upbringing in America had taught her differently than how people behaved in England.

Thus, she kept in contact with Amy and Lottie, despite her sister-in-law's constant poo-pooing. Their shared journey across the Atlantic and back aboard the Renown, captained by the paranoid and insane Captain Sawyer, was an experience too large to disregard. It would keep them friends forever, no matter how different their situations, occupations, and social statuses were. And besides, Cat reasoned, all of them would be mothers sooner or later—yes, even the independent Amy, someday—and after that, why would it matter who had more money? Money would come for them in time, she was certain. So she let her peers judge her, not caring what they thought.

The last year had gone in a blur. The three had managed to see each other, lamenting on their common woes, and reminiscing on shared times. Visits never came soon enough, and they never lasted as long as they would have liked. Though Amy was often bogged down with rehearsals, she wrote to her friends continually. Her letters were enormous and drama-filled—just the way that her friends liked them. Cat loved reading letters from her friends. Lottie, living just a day's journey from Cat, visited as often as she was able to, though her work at the tavern often left her grounded in Southampton. Cat refused to have her beloved friend pay for such an expense—oftentimes she would send her own chaise-and-four after Lottie, and sometimes to Amy as well. For certain plays, Lottie and Cat even managed to see their friend preform, which Amy was always thrilled with. Cat had invited both girls to come here for the fast approaching holidays, knowing the odds were that all three of them would be husbandless.

Lottie had been the first to get married, in Jamaica, right after the trial that decided the fate of the Renown's lieutenants. Over the course of the next year, Amy had married—aboard the Hotspur, a ceremony preformed by Horatio on their journey back to England—and then finally, Cat and Archie later that summer. Of the three, Cat and Archie's wedding had been by far the most elaborate. His sister had insisted on helping plan it, and though Archie flushed and said again and again how there was no need to make such a big fuss, it turned out to be a fairly large reception. A wedding was just about the only exciting thing that had happened to the people recently, Clara had said. It was cause enough for a "big fuss". So they had not gotten married as soon as Archie would have liked, but Cat was able to get acquainted with those who would shortly become her family, and familiarize herself with the area beforehand.

When Cat remembered that moment, she realized how little she had taken in of her surroundings that day. She remembered little of the church, the priest, the ceremony, or the gifts. All that came to mind was the thrill that had descended down her spine as they had sealed their fate with that kiss. Later on, she could remember twirling in endless circles of ecstasy as the music, the people, and the chatter faded into the background, hands clasped with Archie, her silver ring gleaning in the candlelight.

Realizing her train of thought had made her painting come to a stand-still, she blinked out of her trance, once again dabbing the paintbrush to the canvas. He would be coming home very soon, he had last written her, he believed, even in time for Christmas, and staying through the first two weeks of January. This Cat had laughed aloud at. Archie was always teasing, always optimistic—but surely he lacked the capability of predicting such an outcome. Cat knew that the chance of his actually being home in time for a real holiday for longer than a few days was a rare occurrence in the navy. But she understood that, she was a navy wife. And the chance that he would actually be home before Christmas was even more rare. One could only travel so fast by sea, weather and God allowing.

But still, she thought, as she continued to make her picture come to life: she had better finish his present ahead of time, just to be safe.

The actress bowed, none too modestly, before making her way off stage. The crowd had been responsive tonight, their performance the best one, and final one. There had been cheers rather than groans, and applause rather than rotten fruit. The actors and actresses shuffled backstage and into the back rooms, chattering freely now that the show was over, and there was nothing to be nervous about. The dancers babbled and bickered about who a certain gentleman near the front at been looking at, and who he was. The leads talked more conservatively, laughing about their mistakes, which now seemed so trivial, and recalling the many unique things that had occurred during the show.

Amanda Bush quickly changed out of her costume, eager to return to her normal, simpler attire. It had been an awful, gaudy garment this time. Part of her wondered if had been chosen just to annoy her. After all, she was rather outspoken backstage—too outspoken for some people's taste. Too tired to wash off her stage makeup, she decided to leave it on. Calling goodnights and well-wishes to her colleagues, she made her way to the coat-rack to grab her cloak.

"Allow me to escort you back home, Amy?" a voice said behind her, and she turned. It was one of the minor actors, who had always been rather accepting of Amy—despite her often rude outburst and lack of delicacy. He was a proper gentleman, and genuinely cared about her safe return to her house. Amy often referred to him as a sweetheart, much to the grumbling to her husband—who preferred that term to be in reference to himself, and not another member of the male species.

"As always, dear Colin," she replied, allowing him to hold open her cloak for her as she slid her arms inside its sleeves. Not because she couldn't handle the streets of London herself, of course, but it did make her feel secure having a male person to walk back with her down and to the left where her she lived. And yes, Bush knew about him. It wasn't a secret affair or casual flirtation. It wasn't, well, much of anything really. Bush grumbled, and pretended to be jealous, but deep down he knew her safety was important, and Amy assured him that the man in question had interest in things other than women, namely, her.

Placing her hood over her head, Amy linked arms comfortably with her escort. Colin was an eccentric, but very talented. He was often told he should be able to move on to even bigger companies, but his low class birth kept him confined to mediocre acting troupes such as this. She had found a great friend in Colin, especially since he was not near as envious or quick to discriminate as many of the dancers and actresses were. It had always been more easy for Amy to befriend boys than girls, this situation was no different. They were simpler, and easier to figure out, Amy thought. Girls were complicated, gossiping and over-analyzing things to death—it made her want to scream.

Not to say she didn't have any close girl friends. Despite the distance and traumas the faced, she had remained friends with Cat and Lottie—her two closest friends, practically sisters. When it came to seeking advice, or wanting to rant about a particular hardship, Cat and Lottie were the ones she sought out.

It had been a particular draining show this time, and Amy was entirely enervated. How she longed to curl up in her warm bed, away from the energy and the noise, and sleep. And seeing as tomorrow she had off, she could allow herself the luxury of sleeping in.

"You're sure this isn't out of your way?" she asked teasingly, to which he replied,

"No, of course not. I'm going the same way," with a winkle in his eyes.

This was a running joke between them. Both of them knew that Colin lived in the opposite direction, though he had lied about this at first to save Amy some embarrassment. Ever since then, she had made a point to tease him at ever opportunity about it.

After saying goodnight to her escort, she made her way up the stairs and to the right, where her rooms were. Candles were lit the hallway, undoubtedly by her landlord, and she used one to light up the room. It wasn't the largest of apartments, but it suited her.

"Tom?" she called into the now lit room, and she sighed as silence answered her. She was alone tonight, again.

Thomas Bush, the younger brother of her husband, lived with them here in London. The man, or boy rather, had studied law at the college and upon graduating had been deemed to be a lawyer. But now, a year later, he had done little in the ways of employing himself. He had managed a few cases here or there, but overall his career had been somewhat of a flop. The other ways he had spent his time were not, in Amy's opinion, justifiable. Too many times she had come home to a cold house, while Tom and an acquaintance—all too often a female—huddled around the dining table, laughing and babbling over too much wine.

But William loved his little brother, despite his laziness and failures, and thus Tom stayed. Amy, however, was not as forgiving. She had banished him and his "friends" to the back rooms, though she suspected he broke this rule when she wasn't home, and had found a lady''s handkerchief or two that she knew for certain wasn't hers. Somehow, though, he managed never to be caught, leaving Amy suspicious whenever she came home and found him supposedly sober, playing a solitary game of cards in his room. Honestly. And people talked about the vulgarity and wickedness of the theatre! There was vulgarity enough among normal people in society. Men.

But not all men were like Tom, she knew. Her husband was not, and though she had not realized it right away, she knew now that she had been lucky. Since her arrival in London, she had heard all too many horror stories of mistreatment from actresses and dancers. There was a time when she would not have hesitated in ending a relationship if her significant other did not suit her. But here, in this time, in this world, things were not so easily changed.

Bush had never treated her ill, never forced her to anything, never given her much grief other than his usual bantering. Sure, he was often grumpy, complained relentlessly, and they bickered about trivial matters, but overall, her marriage was very blessed. And although she was hard to please, and somewhat high-maintenance, she knew that Bush knew that he had been very blessed to have her as his wife as well. They weren't much of a mushy-lovey couple, as some couples insisted on being—Archie, she heard, was apparently known for his ridiculously sappy love letters to Cat, and it appeared to be very hard for Wellard and Lottie to keep their hands off of each other, even when in public. But their love for each other was real, she and he both knew this, even if both of them liked to play hard-to-get once in awhile.

As she prepared herself for bed, Amy reviewed the play in her head, humming the theme that had gone along with it. Theatre in this world was like none that she had ever experienced in her lifetime. There was a real live orchestra, playing original compositions. There were no microphones, no lightbulbs. All sound reverberated through the well-thought out dimensions of the theater. The drudgery of rehearsals was heavy. There were many sleepless nights, and times when she was yelled at constantly by her superiors. But everything led up to the week of performances, and that was worth all the pain in the world. It was quite something, to be under the light, on stage in front of an audience that channeled energy and response.

Surely, yes, there had been bad experiences as well. Rotten fruit was the audience's reprimand for a less-than-stellar performance. And yes, there were also the occasional jeers from soused-up men in the front, and even a rare confrontation from one of said souses. Life in the arts was surely more relaxed when it came to morality, but Amy found it not nearly as off-putting as she thought she would.

Overall, she liked her new line of work. And, in addition to the happiness it eventually reaped, it offered a source of income. Which wasn't a bad thing, considered how much the peacetime had taken a toll on Bush's pay. In addition, acting provided a way for her to cope with her husband being gone so much. Amy would not be the first to admit it, but she was needy—she hated it when Bush was overseas, and she was forced to stay ashore, waiting and worrying. It was maddening the emotional toll it could take on her, imagining all the possible things that could go wrong, ending in Bush's fatal return.

So, she acted, letting it drain her of her thoughts, worries, and fears, submersing herself completely into another character's world. It was very therapeutic, she found. And besides, she was _good_ at it. It had taken time to be granted an audience with the company's directors, and she could tell that they prejudged her to be yet another lowlife not worthy of their time. This had only motivated her further, and her adaptation of a monologue of Shakespeare's Ophelia had them nearly in tears by the end of it. Needless to say, she was quickly recruited.

She wouldn't be able to act forever, she knew; she would grow old, and probably become the mother who Bush, and she herself, secretly, wanted her to be. And lately, she had been thinking that this would happen sooner than later. Bush was very frank when it came to these matters; he made it clear that he wanted children. And not just one, or two, but _many_ children. "I need little ones to take care of me in my old age," he grumbled, but Amy always deterred him to another conversation. It wasn't that she was so against having children, it was that it meant sacrificing her freedom, and with Bush being gone so much, it would surely be a large sacrifice. She just wasn't ready yet, that was all.

However, it was a sacrifice she knew she would make some day. She could tell from the day they were married, from the look in Bush's eyes, that children were what Bush wanted the most, in addition to her as his wife.

Their wedding had been aboard the Hotspur, on their journey back to England. A flagship had approached them, telling everyone of the joyous news: the war with France was over, peace had been obtained! This had convinced Bush that very moment to seize the day, now that he would most certainly be kept ashore for some time before returning to sea. After grabbing Amy by the arm, and speaking quietly with Horatio, it was arranged that the couple would be wed that very day, under the guidance of the Captain. Within the hour, Horatio preformed the somewhat awkward ceremony, the crew cheered, and Bush took his bride to his cabin, where the two enjoyed what was gossiped amongst the ship to be the most lively of wedding nights.

As Amy sat in her bed, watching out her window at the snowy, cold world outside, she shivered internally. Her hope was that wherever William Bush was, that he was warm and safe, and that he was thinking of her, and missing her as much as she missed him. A hum left her lips, the first few chords of the orchestral theme of the play earlier that night. As quickly as the melody came, it left her. A bang sounded from downstairs, and Thomas Bush made his presence known. Amy sighed, pulling tightly closed the curtains over the window, wishing once again it was her husband, and not her wayward brother-in-law. But he would be home soon enough, she knew. He had written the moment the Hotspur was sailing towards Portsmouth Bay, saying he would be on shore within a fortnight and would be returning to the house as soon as he was able. She couldn't wait. With good weather, his journey home would surely only take a few days before he was back in her arms.

Maybe then she could finally convince him—with her various methods of persuasion—to kick Tom out. And enjoy his company, of course.

Far away in Southampton, soft light shone from a town building's upper room window. The usually busy tavern had called it a night. It was more respectable than some inns around the city—there were no harlots employed here—but there was surely a moderate deal of drunken behavior and merriment that took place during the day. It did not stay open all night, it closed a few hours after sunset. However, those who lived above it were still awake.

Charlotte Wellard sang quietly to herself as she pulled the needle in and out of the fabric. The sun had set hours ago, but she was still working hurriedly to finish darning the socks that had somehow piled up over the last few weeks. Socks were one of her least favorite things to mend, she had found, as they were highly uninteresting, and one of the most hole-prone articles of clothing she had encountered. Nevertheless, it was a task that needed to be accomplished, and one she couldn't get out of.

It had been yet another long day, and for her, it was not over yet. There were still things she had yet to attend to before she went to bed. In the morning, she would rise as usual—with the sun—making her way to tavern downstairs to start her daily tasks of cleaning, cooking, and serving the guests that would trickle in throughout the day. It was work that required diligence; she did not often get days off, save Sundays, or breaks. Even more rarely did she get to sleep in, or spend a day doing something only for her enjoyment.

Despite her trying situation, Lottie remained optimistic about her life. And she was ever so grateful that because of this job, she had a place to stay and enough to eat. Her situation, she often likened to being God-ordained, because everything had worked out so nicely and aptly.

During the peace, she and Wellard had stayed in an inn room in Southampton, not able to do much of anything. Within a year, the shaky peace with France was over, and Wellard had found himself assigned along with Archie to the Armageddon, under the authority of Captain Neville Hawthorne. In the weeks leading up to his departure, the couple had desperately tried to make arrangements for a place for Lottie to live until Wellard returned. Buying a house was out of the question, for the time being, seeing as they had been unable to save much of anything during the peacetime.

It had been a fortunate day for Lottie when she met Bridgette Hempsy. She had been scouring the street market place when in front of her, a woman visibly with child carrying one too many baskets dropped the things she had purchased. Bread tumbled, apples rolled, and a glass jar threatened to shatter as the baskets had fallen to the ground. Strangely, no one sought to help the poor woman, although a boy picked up one of her apples, only to dash off with it down the street.

Feeling it was only right, Lottie had helped, gathering up the apples in her apron, brushing off the bread, and placing gently the glass jar back in the basket. The woman had been profoundly appreciative, and she had introduced herself as Bridgette Hempsy. Lottie had offered to help her carry her belongings the rest of the way home, and the two had chatted pleasantly along the way.

Bridgette was an overly busy housewife. Her husband had been in the military years ago, but after an injury had removed him from his service, he had stayed home to help run his mother's inn—_The Wayside Tavern_. Over the last year, Mrs. Hempsy senior had gotten ill, and though every remedy had been broached by doctors near and far, her sickness had not gone away. The woman was reaching her last days, and was currently bed-ridden. This of course, only meant more work for Bridgette. And now that she was sure to have her second child within the next month, her life was sure to get even more complicated.

Lottie, in return, told Bridgette her less-than-ideal story—her needy situation, her wish not to rely on someone else's charity, and her hope for a place of her own. Bridgette had sympathized. "I am all too familiar with a penniless husband. Don't you think it strange, how those without money always seem to be the most handsome?" she had replied dryly, and Lottie had smiled politely.

Upon arriving back at her tavern, what Bridgette offered Lottie surprised her.

"I find you most amiable," Bridgette had told her, looking her so firmly in the eye Lottie had to fight the urge to look away. "My first impression of you is that you are honest, and willing to work for your happiness. I think that you can help me, and in return, I can help you."

The woman had been very blunt—the stress that she had been under lately had been too much to handle, and she needed help. In return for Lottie's helping out with the children and around the tavern, she would provide a place for her to rest and food for her to eat.

"Of course, Mr. Wellard, when he comes ashore, may stay with you here," she had added, with a sneaky smile that was not missed by the attentive Lottie.

And so, Lottie had found employment, and a place to stay. There had been some apprehension about it. Wellard had made her promise that if things didn't work out, that she would go and stay with Cat until he returned to England. But things had, most luckily, worked out. Bridgette—who later on Lottie knew as Bridy—had turned out to be a good friend. She and her husband were very generous, and appreciated the help that Lottie gave them. Oftentimes Mr. Hempsy suffered from severe headaches, and Lottie was called on to tend to the tavern while Bridy cared for her husband or children.

There were also countless things Lottie had learned from Bridy. Most importantly, how to care for things she had previously never had to attend to. How to mend, wash, cook, and clean in this time period was significantly different than how she had learned in her own time. Her cooking skills had been greatly furthered under the supervision of Bridy, and soon enough, the kitchen became the one place she felt truly comfortable.

Lottie had been saving tips and other payment she received from strangers or those who had paid her in return for a service. She did this in hopes that one day, it wouldn't always be like this. That one day, both of them could move into a house—a real house—of their own, a place where they could raise children. This she longed for increasingly, although she had learned to be content with the little she had. Wellard felt bad about this, she knew, but she didn't mind working so much. After all, where would she be without him? Alone, surely, living off another's charity, being at their disposal. Here, at least she was useful.

Despite the company of Bridy, Lottie missed Wellard most terribly. The last time she had seen him had been over two months ago, and then it had only been for one blissful day while the Captain had seen to some business in town. Some days, her life seemed so merciless that it seemed that God and Wellard were the only things that made the day obtainable.

They were quite a pair, he and she. During the first year of their marriage, both had discovered the healing and comfort they could find in one another. They had their demons, memories they wished they could forget, words better left unspoken, experiences that had forever changed them. Oftentimes, one of them would wake up from a nightmare of their past, and the other would call to them, bringing them away from the window, and back to bed. Lottie was very proud of Wellard, which he knew, and he was very much glad to have her as both a friend and companion.

There was great news to tell Wellard when he returned; Lottie was with child. Her shyness had prevented her from admitting this in writing to her husband overseas. It was to be a surprise for whenever he made his next visit ashore. She wished desperately that he would be happy, and not dismayed. This gave her a keen happiness, knowing that a life was growing inside of her. A son perhaps, or a daughter? With this happiness, there was trepidation. How would they provide for this child? Would she be a good mother? Wellard was so concerned about the raising of children, Lottie supposed, because of his rather harsh upbringing. So desperately she wanted this unborn child to have a good life, to grow up in a steady, healthy enviornment, and have siblings to love and grow up with.

All these thoughts swarmed in Lottie's head, keeping her awake despite her drooping eyelids. Having darned the particularly attention-needing sock to her satisfaction, Lottie leaned to blow out the candle on her bedside table. As she tucked the blankets in around herself, quiet prayers were offered upwards as she murmured her daily thanks and pious requests. Thanking Him for her many blessings, and her unborn child. Thanking Him for the old, out-of-tune pianoforte in the backroom that allowed an outlet for her emotions. Praying that Wellard was safe, and would be here with her soon.

Out of habit more than anything, she twisted round her finger the thin, plain silver band that symbolized her matrimony to the man she loved. It was a simple ring, but it meant the world to Lottie. On her journey back to England, for lack of a better temporary substitute, Wellard had tied a thin string in a bow on her ring finger. Though Lottie hadn't minded not having the ring straight away, his feet had scarce touched the English shore before he pulled his wife to the nearest jeweler—he did have his pride, Lottie supposed, and the other officers had surely teased him about it. Her face lit up with a small smile at the memory, of him holding her small hand and sliding the band onto her finger, of the smile—the broad, genuine smile that so rarely graced his eyes.

Oh, she did hope he would come ashore soon.

**For some reason, this chapter was kind of hard to write. It's going to take some getting used to being in HH mode again! Review now, hmm?**


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